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The day had been picking up steam and setting it on the crooked shelf of sky as gently sliding clouds. Now, at light's end, the moon has nestled itself in the small of the mountaintop's back. Mist rises from the trees and it is clear that both mountains are sighing, forest-blanketed lover lying next to lover. Inside the house, the sound of women talking, laughing, their voices too thick with twang to escape through the screen of the door. The chains of the porch swing creak with each forward backward, forward backward push. A rusted tractor with flat tires sits in the field across from the house and tall weeds thread themselves through its cracked innards. They blow and bend slightly. Far away, something is breaking. The dogs run up and down the holler in the last moments of twilight, tails at nervous attention. They trot back to the porch after realizing they've been barking at their own voices as they bound back down the valley walls. |
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